


Exquisite When Unseen

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blindfolds, Fingerfucking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-20
Updated: 2011-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-04 08:00:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wants to understand the effect he has on John, but discovering what’s right before his eyes might require a blindfold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exquisite When Unseen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emerald Embers (emeraldembers)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emeraldembers/gifts).



> Written for [Five Acts, Round Four](http://toestastegood.livejournal.com/598881.html) for [](http://emerald-embers.livejournal.com/profile)[**emerald_embers**](http://emerald-embers.livejournal.com/) for a combination of prompts, including “performing for a partner.”

_Those fingers_ , John thinks, and that’s where his powers of observation get stuck, because two of _those fingers_ \--long, lean digits equally suited to adjusting a microscope slide or holding the bow of a violin— are disappearing inside Sherlock.

Sherlock’s arranged himself on the couch, legs propped up on the coffee table and splayed. His robe hangs open, and he has not a stitch on besides, unless John counts the thick black cloth that’s been pressed into service as a blindfold. Which he does not. After all the blindfold doesn’t really hide Sherlock's body: if anything, it enhances his features.

“You’re breathing faster,” Sherlock says. “I can hear it.” He tilts his hips up further, sending his fingers sinking into his ass past the second knuckle.

John’s hands tighten their grip on his chair’s arms, and he fights the urge to lean forward for a better view.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” Sherlock demands.

“I thought you didn’t want to make this too easy,” John says, proud of how even his voice sounds despite the jumble of impulses swirling in his mind: touch him, taste him, touch himself, Christ, and least undo his own zip, want to lick, want to be inside, want Sherlock’s hands doing that to him.

“No, fine.” Sherlock draws his fingers out slowly and slides them back in at the same maddening pace. His long cock stands straight up from its bed of dark hair.

John wants to look at it forever, but his eyes shift themselves back to Sherlock’s ass, where he’s begun twisting his fingers vigorously. John’s hand comes off the armchair to squeeze himself through his trousers.

“Ah,” Sherlock says. “You like that.”

John folds his hand into a tight fist, which he drags surreptitiously up and down the prominent ridge his hard-on outlines in his trousers. The tight confines are rapidly becoming unbearable, but John is determined not to give in until absolute necessity compels him.

“What is it about this that interests you the most?” Sherlock spreads his knees farther, balancing precariously at the edge of the sofa. His fingers delve inside at a new angle. Sherlock’s body tenses all over, and his mouth falls open. A little noise escapes him. It might have been a moan.

John frantically undoes his zip, shoves his pants out of the way and pulls his aching cock free so he can wrap his hand around it.

Sherlock seems to have recovered at least part of his self-control. Now he’s making short in-and-out swipes with two fingers. John sits mesmerized, stroking his cock as he watches Sherlock’s fingers disappear over and over again. “Ah,” Sherlock says. “You like seeing the pleasure it brings me. Why?”

“Don’t you know?” John asks. Even blindfolded, Sherlock should be able to see such an obvious thing as that. John watches as a drop of pre-come wells at the tip of Sherlock’s cock and manages to keep himself seated.

“No, not yet.” Sherlock scoots back on the couch so he can fold his knees under him. He tucks one long, graceful arm behind him and between his legs. John can tell from the way his lips press together that he has slid his fingers back inside. John can well imagine the pleasure of the tight clench of Sherlock’s body around those digits.

Sherlock wraps his other hand around his straining prick, and rolls his thumb around the head. He’s breathing shallowly through his mouth now as he rides his hand. His face—what John can see of it—has gone slack in a wave of pleasure.

John tugs frantically at his own cock, certain that this sight is the most erotic he’s ever seen. He wants to reach his end with this before his eyes: Sherlock at the peak of sexual excitement, pleasuring himself expertly, and for John’s benefit.

“Yes,” Sherlock hisses. “Yes, John.”

At the triumph in Sherlock’s voice, John spills over his fist with a relieved shout.

Sherlock pushes up onto his knees, fingers still buried inside. “That’s it!” he cries out.

John launches himself out of the chair and across the room to land on the floor before the couch. “Yes,” he breathes. He bows his head forward, waits for Sherlock’s needy intake of breath, and then licks a long stripe up the side of Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock pushes up further on his knees, and John reaches a between Sherlock’s legs to grab his wrist and guide it, pushing Sherlock’s fingers deeper. He opens up to suck Sherlock’s cock into his mouth, a warm, solid mouthful. He moves Sherlock’s hand to angle his fingers-- _those fingers_ \--and there, that’s Sherlock gulping in breath as his prick pulses in John’s mouth, emptying down his throat.

Sherlock slumps back against the couch, and John lets him slide from his mouth reluctantly. He tenderly pulls Sherlock’s hand free, and rests his head against Sherlock’s thigh, letting him breathe.

When Sherlock’s gone from shaking to smiling dumbly, John asks, “Did you get what you wanted?”

Sherlock tugs the blindfold down away from his eyes and lets it settle around his neck. “I learned a few useful tidbits,” he says. “I suppose this response of yours makes sense. When I see you become aroused, it is… good.”

“I’m glad you figured it out.” John pulls himself up onto the couch and slumps against Sherlock. “For a moment there I thought we’d have to repeat the exercise.”

“Not the _same_ exercise,” Sherlock says immediately. He drops his arm over John’s shoulder. “After all, I’d like to determine if seeing you in a state of extreme arousal would have a similar effect on me.”

John gives a long-suffering sigh. “Well,” he says. “Give me at least an hour.”

Sherlock grins, and the glint in his eyes promises danger of the most exquisite kind.


End file.
